


you are here (you are still right here)

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Boys In Love, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Returns, Buckycentric, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War, Stucky - Freeform, pining Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5864560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>bucky dials the wrong number (only it wasn't accidental at all and nothing has ever felt so right) and hears a familiar voice on the other end.</p><p>you are here<br/>you are here<br/>you are still right here<br/>[post WS/pre CW]</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are here (you are still right here)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by http://just-six.tumblr.com/post/138273129669/wrong-number-says-a-familiar-voice

_You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place_

_where you could love him. You have not found that place yet._

[Siken]

Clammy hand cradling a cell phone under a name that isn't yours, nothing is yours - amber glow of the New York skyline as it covers everything it touches in a sea of gold that's not meant for men like you to behold. No, you're not gold and you never will be - polished silver at best and most days you breathe hot air against your own reflection in order to unearth the shine because he looked at you like you were rare.

You remember him; tattered shirt with shoulders he never grew into (not until he left you), second hand shoes with holes on the bottom, his thin frame stooping to collect spare pennies on the sidewalk, blonde cropped hair - a fringe that became a curtain against his eyes where you couldn't see and the bluest eyes staring back with open affection.

You were in love once (only you never quit loving him when they told you to - you're foolish like that).

And so this is how you ended up tucking yourself into a corner cafe and nervously dialing a number that claimed to be his.

* * *

  _You are here, you are here._

_You are still right here._

[Siken]

On the third ring a familiar voice picks up and it's balm to your cracked and damaged heart.

"Hello?"

You stand stone silent, hands locked around the phone - your lifeline.

"If you're from the papers then don't even bother calling back because I'm not interested," Steve lectures.

If you closed your eyes you would see him - standing on pavement with tears in his eyes. NO. wearing a tie that's too small & prattling off a patriotic speech about why he _has_ to join the army with you. NO.

Standing with his arms at his side and more love than one person should ever be able to physically contain - YES.

You want _that_ one.

On the other end of the line there is the distinct rustling of papers and the sound of a coffee cup on wood - he's settling in. The thought soothes you.

"Buck if that's you...can you please say something? I won't even talk back if you don't want me to."

If you weren't already wracked with nerves you would've dropped the phone onto hard concrete in shock - he knows. He knows you and you know more about him than any living person should - information that couldn't be collected from data and files. But this system (this backup restoration) that your brain has created (a complex maze of memories; some that might be dreams, some that seem real enough to touch) is not complete. It's lacking the essential part that ties everything together with a pretty red bow - _him._

"Sarah," you choke out - throat dry & stomach filling with a combination of butterflies and flame throwers (protect self, always).

Steve's mothers name; a subtle hint - _hear me._

He sighs heavily, disappointment in his voice when he says "Wrong number."

The phone shifts in your hand and you could end this right here, could press a finger to that button and trash the phone but you don't want to.

"Wait," you reply - it comes out loud and desperate but you don't care.

"Buck is that....is that you? Don't hang up, please don't hang up."

Words are heavier than the memories that bind you to him; to this world that's only vaguely recognizable but they're the last remaining life raft.

"Okay," you say - lowering your face and quickly glancing around you; old habits and all.

Steve exhales on the other end of the line; white noise and the sound of him breathing is enough - you could survive on this for the rest of your life.

"I can help you. Where are you? I'll meet you there," he offers - the mug is nudged to the side and he curses under his breath when it topples over and for the first time, you allow yourself to smile.

"I know who you are," you reply - slow and steady. No need to rush into things headfirst; that's how men died - good men but you are neither good or bad. You are the line that divides the two.

"You do? Oh. You probably have access to my personal information."

What had began as hope in his voice quickly took a downward slope that brought walls back up around him like a fragile castle of stone.

 This will not do - he's the most important person in your life and he has to know it. 

You begin to rattle off personal details before you can stop yourself - the address of his childhood home, the time you both got in trouble after stealing a piece of gum from the corner store, how he used to wear his fathers old shoes and hated them, the time you had your first bad haircut & he'd argued with you about it until you'd bowed out and apologized for assuming he was insulting it when he said you looked like Mr. Saorse from down the street (a handsome devil but had a good 15yrs on both of you), how your favorite color is cornflower blue (the color of his eyes) and how every Christmas after his mother had died the two of you would spend the night at the bar with cheap beer and sloppy grins (alcohol makes him happy, you remember this).

He's stunned and doesn't speak for a full two minutes after you decide that you've shared enough.

"Tell me where you are," he pleads once more. You recognize the longing in his voice; had been party to it more often than not. It's the same voice that comes to you in vivid dreams with lips like velvet and long pale fingers on your wrist.

A quick scan of your surroundings reveals the name of the cafe (you hadn't even bothered checking the name earlier) to be Dino's with a slogan artfully written on the sidewalk chalkboard on your left (sitting directly in front of a man in dark shades; sipping at his beverage like he has all the time in the world.) 

"Can't."

You can picture him plain as day - teeth sinking into his bottom lip, dark blue jeans, white t-shirt and navy jacket as he flips through papers.

"Can you at least try?"

You want to tell him that you really are trying but the speed at which you progress is akin to cold honey in an upside down jar and his face would do that thing again; puppy dog eyes - wide with realization and you wouldn't survive.

 _Yes, I'm here,_ you'd tell him but the words wouldn't have a means of escape (they'd die before you had the chance to rebuilt)

_Yes I'm him - your Bucky (if you'll have me)_

 

At some point you begin to walk without a plan or destination in mind; there is only the sound of his voice and wind in the trees. He catches you up on the past few years (you've been frozen and unfrozen, built, broken, and built once more and it's a relief to know that he wasn't subjected to the horror you experienced at the hands of Hydra; you're missing huge gaps and you should recognize the modern world better than you do but you don't), the best fast food places in the area and a small business that sells cassette tapes, vinyl records and cd's.

After a rousing disagreement about whether cheese and crackers count as dinner (yours) or not (carbs? dairy? dinner) he asks one more time.

"Come home with me?"

Four words that slam against your chest - this is the moment where you either leave or choose to stay (both options are equally terrifying).

"SHIELD is scoping out your apartment, can't take a chance," you reply. You're no fan of that place anyway - not after you let the beast inside take over (and kill a man). It harbors bad memories.

"I'll move then...if you'll come back. For me? Please?," he begs.

"I cannot guarantee anything," you remind him - you're up to your neck in collateral damage and you told his parents (decades ago) that you'd keep him safe, that you'd _keep_ him and you'll move heaven and earth to make that happen.

There's a watery smile on Steve's face when he speaks - "I'll take what I can get."

* * *

 Two months into the deepest and darkest hole that you've ever tossed yourself in - (it is two months when you see him for the first time in over five years. It feels like fifty some days and others like ten minutes [because you never truly left - shadow staying behind as a reminder - _you are loved, I'll come back].)_ you turn to him.

You'd pushed the envelope too far and garnered the attention of high government officials who'd love nothing more than to drain the life right out of you so you'd promptly cut your losses and split.

(he is the test you're pitting yourself against, you need him and he needs you in a way that gives you room to breathe. you've set this up - time/date/place and it's feels like you're still dreaming)

He's leaning against a brick wall as sunshine reflects onto hair that you'd memorized as children, arms crisscrossed over his torso (he's protecting himself - Bucky knows that feeling all too well) and squinting against the midday sky (struggling to locate your face in mottled groups of New Yorkers) when he sees you.

You take long strides across the sidewalk & try to calm your breathing (it isn't working) as he lights up like he hadn't since the war (or you're assuming at least; if going by newspaper articles counted as reliable information).

You come to a full stop in front of him (jangled nerves and hope dangling precariously between the two of you) and say nothing (there is nothing and everything to say) as you throw caution to the wind, grab a fistful of Steve's shirt (in the hand that held his many times as children) and haul him in for a kiss.

It's wet and soft in the way you'd always imagined it would be - kissing Steve Rogers means falling in love with every slide of his lips against yours and loving him is pure raw instinct - a mechanism placed in your hands for safe keeping from the minute you'd knocked a kid out for touching Steve.

It's art in motion - in the way that your hand skims over a trim waist and his finds solace in the curve of your lower back.

You pin his hands back against the wall - your left on both of his and find the hard line of his jaw with your teeth and tongue (gently, gently).

He melts against you and drops his arms after catching his breath; leans his forehead against yours - "Still got that number?"

"It's still the wrong one," you tease.

"I'll have to keep calling it until the right person picks up then."

You nod - the kiss must've rendered you nearly speechless and slowed your thinking process because all you want to do is kiss him senseless (in the same manner you did in one of those dreams that felt more like reality but the mind does strange things when the body is on ice).

 ~~Wrong number~~ , ~~wrong person~~ right number, right person.


End file.
